To you

A few months ago I wrote a really mature-sounding post on self-love. Earlier this week, I took some shit out, added some more in, and re-printed it for a sex blog-a-thon.

I have a confession to make: it's all lies.

Or at least, it feels that way. Because right now, I'm lonely. Ugh. Not a cute look.

Another confession: I write cheesy love poems.
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To you:
My future wifey
Is made from
The fragmented
Fictions of my imagination.
The one I construct
Using the wastelands
Of other people’s insecurities:
A sideways smile,
A chip on her shoulder
Butterflies in her stomach
And maybe a star wars collection.
I painted her
With the daydreams
Of my future
And brought her to life
Through the nightmares
Of my past
So she’s nerd-tested,
And ‘hood-approved.
Classy enough
Not to be uppity
And always down to earth.
Not offended
By the peeling paint
On my ceiling
And doesn’t pity me
For my family's lunatics.
Knows her critical race theory
But doesn’t floss that shit
When it’s not necessary.
She annunciates well,
And listens even better.
She doesn’t even have to cook
Just hold me
When I’m hungry
And make me laugh
To forget how broke I am.

I'd like to front
Like there are no prerequisites.
But it wouldn't hurt
If she had an affinity for hoodies,
Oakland
And gender sluts,
Like I do.
I'd tell her to meet me
In the middle
Since we've both
Spent out lives on the margins.
She could bring her secrets
and I could bring my shame,
and we could laugh
at our missteps
to the baseline of
her favorite rapper.

Maybe one day
She'll read this poem
and tell me how much
of a loser I am.
But a cute one.
Then I'll say something
equally as loser-ish
but cute, like:
It was all worth it
to get to you.

© The Playground, 2008